


chasing storms

by agrestenoir



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, Identity Porn, Identity Reveal, ML Secret Santa, Memory Loss, Multi-Mouse - Freeform, Mutual Pining, Secret Identity, Slow Burn, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:13:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22057585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agrestenoir/pseuds/agrestenoir
Summary: No one knows Marinette is Ladybug—she has a talent for keeping secrets. After a mysterious bout of amnesia as a result of an akuma attack, literally no one knows Marinette is Ladybug.But someone does know Marinette is Multi-Mouse… and he needs her help to find his lady.
Relationships: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Alya Césaire/Nino Lahiffe
Comments: 76
Kudos: 506





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story for the fabulous @Pupimessart for ML Secret Santa 2019. I saw you wanted something with Multi-Mouse, and suddenly this monstrosity was born. It's well over 10,000 words right now, but it's not finished, and I wanted to get something up for you! More is yet to come!
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, and have a happy holidays, dear!

Paris is beautiful at night.

She sits on the edge of her balcony, legs poking through the rusty rails with bare feet swinging like a pendulum above meandering citizens. A mid-October breeze brushes past, kissing her cheeks and rustling the multi-colored ties of the fleece blanket she’s currently nestled under, but something about that feels wrong. In her deepest of hearts, she thinks that the cool, evening air should be more of a bite, whipping against wind-stained skin and whistling past rosy-tipped ears, as she screams and laughs until her throat is sore.

The flash of memory, however brief, makes her throat close up instead.

(Why does Paris make her think she can fly?)

She pulls her blanket tighter around herself to seek comfort in the warmth of the soft fabric, all pink and black like everything else in her bedroom. In the beginning, it was nice to see that her identity had a cohesiveness to it, defined by strict lines and perfect shapes, in a way that _she_ currently doesn’t. But the more she goes through her life, picks apart the pieces to try to understand her own hidden story, it’s clear that her identity is only a mask.

(She’s afraid to find out what’s under it.)

Her mother swears that she should follow her own instincts as they’ve always ruled her heart, despite the fact that she tends to listen to her head more. But her head is silent now, voices and thoughts too lost to string together, so she turns to the people who should have the answers instead.

“I don’t know anything. I just learned that I had to trust you,” her mother told her that morning over breakfast. The smaller woman ducked her head, trying to make sense of a daughter to the stranger in front of her, even though it’s quickly becoming clear that her daughter might as well have been a stranger too. “We knew you were hiding something, but we decided it was best to just wait for you to tell us.”

“Did you ever have an idea what it was?” she asks softly, almost as if she’s afraid of the response.

“None whatsoever,” her mother says. “If there’s one thing I’m sure about, it’s that you are very good at keeping secrets.”

Tonight, she’s not sure if that information comforts her or scares her. Whatever the case, it’s driven her to leave the sanctuary of her home, to stare out over the city blanketed under the evening shadows, and see if it will tell her the truth. All it does is cause the missing part of her to burn and bleed and _ache_.

The night sky twinkles with clusters of stars and the soft glow of the pale moon, and she asks it, “What’re you hiding?”

Paris doesn’t answer. No one ever does.

*

What Paris does know is this: _Ladybug is missing_.

It’s been two weeks since the akuma attack that resulted in the disappearance of Paris’s famed heroine, all traces of her fading away like the memories of the unfortunate few caught in akuma’s path. Newscasts air segments asking for more information, updating the public with what little they know, and sometimes just _begging_ for her return. A billboard is erected with Ladybug’s picture, as if the rest of the city needs reminding of what she looks like. Papers and blogs just document the entire ordeal; there’s not much else of worth to report on. 

Mayor Bourgeois talks ransom, talks bribery, talks hiring. Citizens talk kidnapping, talk failure, talk giving up.

Sometimes, she catches herself walking down Fayette Rue, looks at that stupid billboard and into the haunting blue eyes of a missing hero, and feels the force of a silent cry from all of Paris behind it.

 _How could you leave them?_ she asks. _They miss you. They need you_.

No one talks about the cat who lurks in the shadows of brick-lay buildings and sleeps atop deserted rooftops, who lingers for hours on the metal brackets of the Eiffel Tower, who becomes a permanent fixture along the Paris skyline. It’s been two weeks since Ladybug disappeared, and Chat Noir still can’t find his partner.

 _How could you leave him_? she asks. _He misses you. He needs you_.

Ladybug doesn’t answer. No one ever does.

*

At night, she dreams.

Wind-burned cheeks turning a rosy pink as she flies through the air, blue eyes reflecting the stars in the sky, the moon high casting shadows along rooftops as she leaps from chimney to chimney, heart in her throat as she laughs and laughs, the burn in her muscles as she runs faster, he can’t catch up she’s winning first one to the top of the Eiffel Tower gotta win _gotta win gotta win_ —

There’s a boy.

Golden hair tousled, charismatic smile etched across his face in marbleized permanence, green eyes aglow with curiosity and glee, excitement thrumming through her as he brushes past to take the lead, his laughter quickly becoming her favorite song the more she hears it, his jesting nickname of _my lady my lady my lady_ —

She wakes up and opens her eyes to her bedroom skylight, crawling towards the ladder, tangled in sheets and drenched in sweat. Her heart pounds in her ears, and her hands won’t stop shaking. She’s missing someone, she’s missing someone, she’s missing someone.

_Who are you?_ she wants to ask.

 _Who am I?_ she wants to ask.

 _What are we to each other_? is what she means.

*

Her name is Marinette Dupain-Cheng. Or so they tell her.

She’s found stumbling along a deserted street, dazed and bleeding. Her ribs ache something _fierce_ , bruising along her torso and scrapes up and down her arms; clothing is ripped in places, covered in gravel and dirt and grass stains. Exhaustion lingers deep in her cool, damp bones, and it takes all her strength not to collapse where she stands.

“What happened?” a paramedic asks her once he manages to snag her near a subway entrance, confused and near tears.

“I was flying,” she murmurs, and her head hurts too. “I was flying, and I fell.”

It doesn’t make sense; nothing ever does. Her memories are gone—vanished—like smoke to the wind. Along with a handful of others that the akuma managed to hit, Marinette is left with only a vague imprint of what happened before, but it’s more like she’s trying to see the sun through a heavy fog where all that’s visible is overcome by a burning white light.

There’s wind. There’s pain. There’s a scream.

She doesn’t remember anything else.

The paramedics find her ID, her parents are contacted, and once she’s given a clean bill of health, she gets to go home. From there, she starts to learn. The facts are these: her name is Marinette, she is seventeen, and she wants to be a fashion designer. In the grand scheme of things, perhaps those few items mean nothing, but right now it’s all she knows and it’s who she is.

It’s all she has.

_It’s not enough._

*

In the shadow of the bakery’s chimney, a boy wearing leather-like Kevlar and a black mask sits on the edge of the rooftop while munching on a pasty he’d gotten after visiting her parents who are all too happy to feed the remaining hero of Paris. The moon casts a soft beam of light across his face, illuminating the tangled blonde hair and pale skin, the dark bags that hang heavy under his green eyes, sunken cheeks that speak of sleepless nights.

Marinette watches him from her balcony, in all his disheveled and wide-eyed glory, as he looks over the horizon as if searching for something. He hasn’t noticed her yet, so she just sips her tea quietly, munches on half a sandwich, and stares because she has nothing better to do, unable to concentrate on flipping further into her sketchbooks to see if designs might trigger her memories.

 _When’s the last time you went home?_ she thinks, but then worriedly tapers down that thought. (Where the hell did that come from?)

Leaning against the rail, the cool metal digging into the space between her shoulder blades, Marinette picks up a pencil and begins to draw the superhero above her. The more she sketches, the more an unfortunate story unfolds: it’s in the slope of his arms curled tight around his knees, the slump of his shoulders that speak of sleepless nights and heavy burdens, the constant motion of his feet tapping against the brick as if he longs to trek for miles.

Graphite scratching against paper echoes through the quiet night and fills the space between Marinette’s soft breaths and humming heart. Her eyes dart between him and her sketch, marveling at the contrast of light and dark amongst someone who embodies hope and chaos. It’s when she’s using her fingers to blend the shadow into night, setting stars to the sky and adding the ghost of a smile to his face that she realizes he’s seen her.

“Hello,” Chat Noir whispers lowly from his spot on the roof, now facing towards her.

In the two weeks since Marinette lost her memories, people have talked about Chat Noir, about the remaining hero who’s working hard to protect the city, the one who stayed when Ladybug left. In a way, Marinette feels like she almost _knows_ him, even though that would be crazy. Who would she be if she were brushing elbows with superheroes?

“Hi,” she responds, breathless.

“I like your drawing.” He stares at her with fond eyes, having finished his pastry, which left a smear of powdered sugar across his cheek and lips stained with the red syrup of cherry filling. “You’ve always been really talented.”

“You’ve seen me draw before?”

He smiles. “It’s not the first time you’ve drawn me, Marinette.”

Her name rolls off his tongue like it’s something familiar, something he’s said before, many times in fact. “You know me?” she asks, and the world suddenly gets a whole lot brighter—and a _lot_ more confusing.

Chat Noir presses his lips into a resigned line. “Something like that.”

She’s quiet for a moment before asking, “You been keeping tabs on me?”

“Something like that.” He laughs this time. (It’s nice.)

“Well, then it’s nice to see you again, I guess,” she says, giving him a soft smile. Marinette tilts her head her head, gaze flickering across his face for the answers to questions she can’t even begin to voice. “Though I think you have me at a disadvantage.”

“How so?”

“You know my name, but I can’t seem to remember yours.” She drops her pencil into the fold of her sketchbook, closes it gently, and sets it on the ground beside her. Jerking her head, she gestures for the boy to come join her and stop leaving footprints on her rooftop.

He laughs again, and _gosh she loves that sound._ “Sorry,” he murmurs sheepishly as he slides off the roof and lands on her balcony. “I forgot.”

“So did I.”

Chat Noir’s cheeks turn a lovely shade of pink, and it startles Marinette that she seems to have _quite_ the effect on the hero. “I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”

She only shrugs helplessly in return. “What can I say? I saw an opportunity and took it.”

“Well, if that’s the case, then you definitely haven’t changed much, Marinette.” He stumbles forward with a loping gait and offers his hand to her. “You don’t know my real name, secret identity and all, but you can call me Chat Noir.”

Marinette accepts it with a firm grasp, reveling in the warmth of his grip, the pricks of his claws against the back of her palm and the way he squeezes her hand—once, twice—before letting go. “I figured that much out on my own at least. I’ve seen you around Paris the last few weeks when I’m out for my walks, trying to see if anything will trigger some memories or something, but…” She pauses suddenly, chagrin bubbling up in her chest. “I don’t know why I just told you that.”

“I’m easy to talk too,” he tells her. He swallows, shifting his weight and glances around the balcony, perhaps looking for a way to politely escape.

“You hungry?” She gestures towards the untouched half a her sandwich still on the plate, encouraging the hero to linger beyond just the initial greetings. Chat Noir is right—there _is_ something about him that makes him very easy to talk too. It’s funny because Marinette hasn’t felt this way about anyone since first woke up in this amnesiac world. “My mom makes the _best_ tuna fish sandwiches, or so I’m told. These are the only ones I can remember eating.”

“Feeding fish to a cat?” He quirks a brow high in jest. “Isn’t that stereotyping?”

“Do you want it or not?”

“Yes please.” He collapses into a heap beside her, sandwich already in hand and shoving half of it in his mouth without much preamble.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, Marinette simply tracing the edges of her sketchbook with her index finger while Chat Noir gets his fill, still ravenous after inhaling that pastry. It reaffirms her theory that he hasn’t been home in quite some time, not if he’s looking at tuna fish like it’s creation incarnate. (That thought causes something to pang painfully in her chest, but she doesn’t know why.)

“You come here often?” she asks abruptly, but still manages that small, shy smile. “You said we know each other. Are we friends?”

Chat Noir’s return smile is easy, almost instinct. “Yeah, we’re friends, Mari.”

And _oh_.

Her parents had talked to her endlessly about her friends, even invited a few of them for dinner next weekend once she becomes more acclimated to everything. Alya is the investigative journalist who’s been covering Ladybug’s disappearance on the frontlines; Nino, the savvy DJ she sometimes sees on the midnight talk show her dad is fond of; and Adrien, the son of one of her favorite fashion designers, Gabriel Agreste. They seem like a nice bunch, but none have gone out of their way to reacquaint with her. All Marinette has to go on are snapshots of blurred faces and names without meaning, gathered from the pictures she has strewn around her bedroom and word of mouth.

Chat Noir is the first person she’s met—who uses a nickname in all its achingly wonderful familiarity, who calls her friend, who jokes and laughs and doesn’t treat her like glass. He is the only one who’s here now, and somehow that makes all the difference in the world. 

“I’m glad,” Marinette says in a soft tone, but it speaks volumes all on its own. “I could really use a friend right now.” She leans back against the railing, looks up at the night sky and the few stars visible, and takes comfort in the presence of the boy beside her. “Any chance you can make sense of… _anything_ for me?”

Chat Noir nods, finishing off his last bite of sandwich. “I can try.”

It’s strange, she reckons, that she feels so at ease with someone who wears a mask—someone she realistically doesn’t know on a level she wishes she could. How can she expect him to know her in the way she wants? There’s a certain kind of intimacy needed to have the answers she seeks, things her parents aren’t even aware of.

“Did I ever tell you any secrets?” She stares at him with her head tilted to the side, trying to gauge his reaction.

Her question makes him choke. “Excuse me?”

“It’s just…” Her voice trails off, clenching her hands into white-knuckled fists in her lap. “Ever since I woke up, I can’t figure out who I am—who I was—and everyone looks at me like I should _know_. But… I was so good at hiding things that I somehow managed to hide it from even myself.”

“But why ask me?”

Marinette chews on her bottom lip in thought. “There’s something about you, Chat Noir, and I don’t know what it is. I feel like I _know_ you, which can’t be true because I can’t remember anything.” Shaking her head, she shrugs because she can’t even begin to understand what’s going on in her own head—let alone her own life. “But sometimes I get flashes of…”

“Of what?” he asks, gesturing her to continue.

She frowns. “Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I get flashes of flying through the city, over rooftops, seeing _you_. And then I wake up even more confused than when I first lost my memories.” Marinette levels him with sharp eyes, a wild fire brewing in the depths. “Do you know what that means? Am I making any sense?”

Chat Noir is quiet. “I know what you’re talking about, yeah.” He intertwines his fingers together, rests elbows on his knees, and lays his chin over the backs of his knuckles. “I’m just surprised that _that’s_ what you’re remembering. Out of everything else, that’s the first thing that comes to mind?”

Marinette feels a heaviness settle over them, so she leans over to try to disperse it, nudging his shoulder with her own. “And you.”

He flashes her a small smile. “And me.”

“So can you tell me what those dreams mean?”

Chat Noir glances down at her sketchbook, eyes turning distant. “A few years ago, you _were_ a hero, wielded a Miraculous and everything—the Mouse Miraculous.”

“The Mouse?” she quirks a brow high in surprise. “No one’s talked about a Mouse hero before.”

“Well that’s because it was only the once,” he says, confusion dusting the edges of his voice. “But then your secret identity was revealed, and when that happened, you couldn’t be a hero anymore. It’s too risky with Hawkmoth still on the loose. He’s not above using the people you love to get what he wants. I’ve seen it. I’ve _lived_ it.”

The answer to all her questions burns like a forest fire in front of her, so close that she can feel its heat and taste smoke on the tip of her tongue, but something about its light seems off. _The Mouse hero_ , she runs the thought through her head, testing how it sounds amongst the multitude of things she’s learned about herself. _Marinette. Seventeen. Aspiring fashion designer. Student. Friend. Mouse hero_.

The aftertaste isn’t quite right—doesn’t sit well.

It’s funny, she reckons, that even when she finds another piece to the puzzle of her identity, it still doesn’t fit perfectly.

“Thanks for telling me,” Marinette says after a stretch.

In her chest, her heart sinks, and all she can think is: _Whatever you’re looking for, this isn’t it._

“No problem.” Chat Noir seems to settle back into himself, leaning back to rest against the railing, and turns his gaze towards her. “If you don’t mind me asking, Marinette, how’re you feeling?”

“Fine,” comes her instinctive response.

It makes him laugh. “How are you _really_ , Mari?”

This is how Marinette knows that they’re friends. It’s been two weeks, and amidst the chaos of missed calls and texts, of visits turned away and questioning parents, he’s the first one person to really ask about her. It doesn’t include words like _do you remember_ or _how’s your head_. Joy blossoms in her chest like a blooming rose, taking root and spreading its petals. Of all the things she’s sure of in this life—and right now, that’s not a lot—it’s that Chat Noir means something to her.

“It’s hard,” she says to him. Her nail beds suddenly seem like the most interesting things in the world. “I want things to go back to normal, but I don’t even know what normal is, and everyone just expects me too.” Emotions swell up inside her, and she tries to shake them out of her head. “Everyone looks at me like I’m a ghost, and frankly I just feel haunted.”

Chat Noir leans forward, his hand resting on Marinette’s knee before she could react. “Hey, listen,” he says, low and soothing, his deep voice calming her racing heart, the panicking _pitter-patter_ jumping into her throat. “I swear to you, Marinette, I will fix this. I _will_ get your memories back.”

She blinks a few times, scanning his face for any elaboration. “What do you mean? What could you do?”

“If I find Ladybug, she can use her Miraculous Cure to put everything back the way it was,” he says, green eyes burning something fierce. “That’s her special power: fix anything that’s broken, erase anything the akuma’s touch, make things normal again. She can give you your memories back, Mari.”

Marinette hesitates for a few moments, overcome with the realization that her predicament may not be permanent. “You swear?” she asks because she can’t afford to get her hopes up. “She can do that?”

“Of course.” He grins down at her. “She’s Ladybug. Helping people is what she does.”

She feels a bit lost—a little out of her depth, unsure how to proceed. In the two weeks since she lost her memories, even in a city of heroes, Marinette never expected anyone to save her.

“I thought Ladybug was missing?”

Chat Noir’s smile turns sharp and bitter. “I’m working on that,” he assures her. “I spend just about every moment I can looking for her. It’s hard to cover all of Paris with only three people though.”

She raises her eyebrow. “You need more heroes,” she says simply.

“If only it were that easy,” he tells her.

There’s words on the tip of her tongue—words she isn’t sure she should voice—an offer, a plea perhaps, a promise of her own. But when she opens her mouth, his silver baton beeps at his side, and he curses and withdraws it. He thumbs through the display screen that pops out, a resolute expression settling across his face, before he taps at a few keys and closes it.

Clicking his baton back into place, Chat Noir pushes himself to his feet and stretches. “I have to go. Carapace has a lead down by the Louvre.”

She follows on shaky legs, clenching her knit blanket tighter around her shoulders and sketchbook at her side. “It was nice talking to you.”

He flashes her a thin-lipped smile. “I’m glad you’re recovering well, Mari. Trust me, we’re going to fix this, and everything will go back to normal.” He pivots in place and grasps the edge of the railing, preparing to jump over the edge and down onto the street below.

Without thinking, Marinette reaches for his wrist before he can leave. “If you need anything—really, anything at all—feel free to stop by.” She tightens her grip, hand drifting lower until she can squeeze his fingers between her own. “I want to _help_.”

She doesn’t know where that comes from. All she knows is that, for the first time since she woke up, it feels _right_.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Chat Noir says. “Thanks, Marinette.” He ducks his head low, presses a quick kiss to her cheek, and then backflips over the edge of the balcony and disappears into the shadowed streets of Paris.

She watches him go with a breathless laugh, leaning over the railing, and feels a spark flare to life in her chest.

For the first time, she feels alive.

*

Marinette sits at the counter, balancing on the two legs of the wooden barstool, and picks at her omelet with her fork. Her mother had already finished hers earlier and left to tend to the bakery for their morning rush. Meanwhile, Marinette is left to stare monotonously at the morning news and sift through the page of a second-hand book she’d been halfway through before her accident. Beside her, her father shovels the rest of his eggs into his mouth and downs a glass of milk.

“You look like you’re thinking hard, sweetheart,” he says as he drops his dirty dishes into the kitchen sink.

“Trying to read this book,” she mutters morosely.

Tom casts her a concerned glance over his shoulder. “Did… Did you forget how to read too?” He says it slowly, like the idea never occurred to him.

Marinette simply huffs and shakes her head. “No, I just can’t remember where I freaking left off, or what happened before it. I don’t even know what this stupid book is about. I just know I was reading it.” She closes the paperback and slams it against the counter. It’s the first time she’s truly been able to channel her frustration in a way that makes her feel even the slightest bit better.

“I don’t think beating it into submission will make it tell you anything,” he says, clearly amused by her antics. It should make her angry that he finds light in her frustration, but she knows it’s his way of coping. Even though she may not know him, something tells her that humor is the way her father deals with issues, just like sketching seems to be hers.

“It sucks.”

He hums in response. “And how’s the head today?”

“No better, no worse,” she says with a flourish of her fingers, like it’s an announcement of grandeur, but it’s really: _same shit as always_.

“Have you tried your diaries?” Tom suggests. “You kept a bunch of those.”

She shakes her head. “I can’t even find them.”

 _Just another thing I managed to hide_ , she thinks to herself. Confusion is not a foreign emotion now, having become so commonplace that Marinette refuses to let another thing go ahead and surprise her. So she lets her parents ask pointless questions and make helpless suggestions, lets herself tear apart her bedroom for clues with the vague impression of hope lurking beneath the surface, watches the skyline for any sign of Ladybug or Chat Noir.

“What do you think about having some of your friends over?” Tom suddenly broaches, leaning against the kitchen counter with arms crossed against his chest.

She turns around on the stool, furrowing her brows together. “Will they know where my diaries are?”

Her father laughs. “That’s not what I meant—but maybe? Sometimes I swear Alya knows you better than we do, so she might be able to help you.”

Alya—the journalist. Marinette remembers that name from her phone and _The Ladyblog_ , a website she found after her talk with Chat Noir a few days back. The other girl had texted her a few times since the accident, mainly well wishes and inquiries about lost memories, but Marinette has only managed generic responses thus far. It’s not that she doesn’t like Alya or wants to ignore her, but she doesn’t know what to say.

They might find it difficult, looking at her like she’s a ghost, but no one ever talks about how the dead are supposed to go on living.

“Maybe she can help?” Marinette doesn’t know what else to try. It seems like a good idea. It can’t hurt anything, right? “Can we invite her and the others over?”

 _Alya. Adrien. Nino_. Those are the friends her mother had mentioned earlier.

“Sure,” her father nods. He places a hand between her shoulder blades, rubbing her back in an attempt to be comforting. “We can have them over for dinner tonight if they’re free?”

“Sounds great.” He presses a kiss to her forehead, cradles her against his broad chest, and a warm wave crashes over Marinette. There’s something about being embraced by her father that makes everything better—makes her feel safe and loved.

It’s a feeling she _knows_. It’s familiar—the same way Chat Noir is.

She doesn’t need memories to tell her that they’re something precious.

*

Alya sits on the stool behind the counter, the bakery having closed ten minutes ago soon after she arrived. It’s obvious from the way she walked about the store, eyes flittering between the pastries and cakes and breads, runs her hands over the glass tops with a rag to rub away fingerprints, switches the locks on front door and flips the sign. She’s been before, she finds comfort here, this is another home to her.

Alya’s more familiar with this shop than Marinette is.

It should irritate her—and perhaps, in a way, it does—but right now Marinette just sees another sign that this is her friend, like Chat Noir. That even though she does not know herself, while she fights to gain even a semblance of understanding, there are people who do know her, who can lead her in the right direction, who can help her get her memories back.

“How’s your head?” is the first thing Alya finds fitting to ask, and it just makes Marinette roll her eyes. This startles a laugh out of the girl on the other side of the counter. “Well, that’s classic Marinette right there.”

The comment makes something flare to life in her chest, blazing and bright. She smiles to herself, crosses her arms against her chest, and leans her hip against the counter. Alya makes her feel light-hearted and airy in a way she never expected, so accustomed to the heavy tension that settles whenever she walks into a room. It’s a breath of fresh air she didn’t know needed.

“You seem like you’re doing better,” Alya adds, reaching into the box of leftover pastries beside her. She picks up a purple macaroon, nibbling lightly to savor the treat, but Marinette has a feeling that she’s just trying to be polite. “I talked to your mom last week, and she said you kept having headaches.”

Marinette frowns, not sure how she feels about people gossiping about her. Granted, she’s one of the most interesting things to happen in her immediate circles for some time, as her father tells her. It’s only natural for people to talk, despite her ire regarding the situation.

“Physically, I’m fine.” Twirling a strand of fringe around her finger, she shrugs helplessly, lost in thought. “Mentally… it’s another story.” She gestures towards her head, wiggles her fingers next to her temple. “Mentally, I’m not all here.”

“Well you’re definitely in there somewhere, Marinette.” Alya’s eyes scan her, up and down, her expression a mixture of fondness and concern. “I can see it in the way you walk, the way you talk, the way you stand there and play with your hair.” Marinette freezes, and Alya shoots her a flat look, lips curling into a sharp smile. “You didn’t leave; you’re just lost in there, girl. You’ll find yourself soon.”

A peculiar silence falls between them as Marinette ponders over Alya’s words, thinking of restless nights under the Paris moonlight, the unending warfare against her old self. How only the thought of Chat Noir’s promise gives her any sort of hope these days.

“So are the others coming?” Marinette asks after a while. “Nino and Adrien? My dad said he invited them too.”

“No, it’s just you and me.” Alya’s voice sounds subdued, almost humored, like it’s a joke she’s used to telling but exhaustion lingers along the edges, speaking of a story Marinette has no origin for. “Nino’s stuck at home with family stuff. His little brother was also affected by the akuma.”

“Like me?”

“Like you,” Alya confirms.

“And Adrien?”

At the sound of his name, Alya flinches, like spoken aloud it’s a weapon, wielded in a way Marinette didn’t mean to. “Adrien’s not responding to anything much these days. Last I heard, he’s been sneaking out a lot, and no one can get a hold of him. He’s kind of out-assholing his dad right now, which, let me assure you, is a somewhat impressive feat.”

“Do you not… like Adrien?” Marinette can’t help but inquire, voice tentative, close to breaking. The subject seems fragile from the way Alya collapses in on herself, like it’s a struggle to admit otherwise. Perhaps there’s a strife between them that Marinette should know about.

“Hey,” Alya says suddenly, reaching out to grip her shoulder with a comforting grip. “I like Adrien. He’s a _really_ good friend of ours, but right now, he’s acting like a bit of a dick. His friends need him, and no one’s heard from him. He hasn’t even gone to see Nino yet, and that’s his _best friend_. There’s no reason why he disappeared off the face of the Earth, and if it wasn’t for the paparazzi photos I see online, I’d actually be worried. I don’t know what his problem is, but I wouldn’t about it. You’ve got enough going on.”

“He texted me a few times,” Marinette tells her, mouth thinning. She doesn’t know what to make of his actions if he’s not even contacting their other friends. Why only her?

This doesn’t seem to surprise Alya. “What’d he have to say?”

“Just wishing me well. Hopes I recover soon.”

Alya nods, letting her hand drop away as she steps out from behind the counter. “That’s because he likes you.” She leans elbows against the glass top, gently nudges Marinette’s shoulder with her own. “You guys have a weird bond. Nino and I could never understand it.”

Marinette wrinkles her nose in confusion. “Is he my boyfriend?”

Shoulders shaking, Alya erupts into peals of laughter, nearly collapsing against the counter under the weight of her amusement. Marinette doesn’t feel insulted per say, but she definitely knows she’s missing out on a glorious joke with years of hilarity behind it.

“Sorry, sorry,” Alya apologizes. “I don’t mean to laugh.”

“Did we break up?”

“No, you were never together,” Alya tells her with another giggle. “But that wasn’t for lack of trying on your part. I think you chased after him for over a year before you got together with another friend of ours, Luka, for a little bit. After that, you and Adrien pretty much remained close friends, but I still love to tease you about him. It’s one of our favorite past times.”

Marinette clears her throat, fighting back a smile. That was probably more information than she could handle, an entire history summed up in a few sentences that make absolutely no sense to her, but she is _so very_ appreciative of Alya. Aside from Chat Noir, she’s the first person to talk to her as if she were her normal self. It’s a nice experience.

She finds herself in desperate need of a repeat. “Do you think you could tell me a little bit more about myself? About my life?” She waves her hand towards the back entrance that leads to the living room where her parents are currently camped out for the night. “Mom and Dad told me the bare bones, but I think they want me to remember more than recall.”

“They have a point,” Alya adds.

Marinette shakes her head. “No. I’m tired of not knowing who I am. If I don’t remember anything, then I need to know. There’s things I don’t understand, and I have questions that they can’t answer.”

“Okay, okay,” her friend assures her, gently tugging on her elbow. “Let’s go up to your bedroom. We can talk all night if you need too.”

Marinette hates how desperately she grabs onto Alya’s wrist, lets her rely so much on this girl she barely knows, but knows she might be the chance she needs to take. So with a deep, shuddering breath, she follows Alya out of the bakery, throwing her trust into the wind and hopes it’ll come back in piece.

(Her memories didn’t. There’s truly no guarantee.)

*

Here’s the facts: Marinette has help—she has people in her corner, people looking out for her, people taking risks to save her. Her parents are willing to take her hand and guide her through the everyday, her friends willing to walk her through the past and present nuances that make her who she is, and a hero who’s striving to get her memories back.

Here’s the facts: Marinette doesn’t like relying on other people. She doesn’t need to know her own history to tell herself that.

The takeaway is this: she has to wade through her sea of secrets on her own.

(She doesn’t know where to start.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marinette searches for her true identity while taking on a new one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some character death alluded to in this chapter. OC civilian, but no one minor/major otherwise.

The first akuma since Ladybug disappeared comes in the late afternoon three days later.

The real oddity in this situation is that there was even a wait at all. The newscaster wagers that Hawkmoth might have something to do with the missing Ladybug and needed time to prepare a counterattack to acquire the rest of the Miraculous that the heroes have in their possession. Marinette just thinks the villain isn’t as formidable as the public likes to think.

Sure, he causes mayhem (case point: her amnesia), but there’s something to be told about a three year war that has resulted in absolutely no victories for Hawkmoth. Going through the timeline that the _Ladyblog_ so elegantly crafted together just goes to show that the heroes are clearly great warriors. The villain has little reputation to stand on aside from making kids cry and causing numerous traffic accidents.

However, this is the first time that Paris doesn’t have Ladybug at the end of a battle. They’re still recovering from the memory akuma, and handling a foe now—someone with considerable powers—is a possible loss that Marinette doesn’t even want to think about.

The battle lasts six hours.

Her father says it’s not the longest fight he’s seen, but it’s definitely on the far end of things. The three active heroes—Rena Rouge, Carapace, and Chat Noir—manage to keep the damage concentrated along a ten block range of Rue Pierre Charron, but it ends with a missing restaurant, a road in need of remodel, and eight civilians injured. Luckily, there’s no causalities—a fear that’s begun to gnaw at the hearts of every Parisian as the reality of a world without Ladybug settles over them.

The heroes disappear to lick their wounds after the akuma is cleansed, though Chat Noir lingers behind to check on the victims. Only three are hospitalized at the end of the day, the others returning to their homes with non-critical outcomes.

Paris calls the heroes great—to persevere in face of the looming threat. Marinette chalks it all up to luck, and they are all running out of it.

Later that evening, her parents crowd around the television during dinner, watching the fallout from the attack. Marinette stands at the top of the stairs, staring hollowly at the clean-up and frustration evident on the reporters’ faces. There’s a tangible fear that’s settled over the city in wake of the akuma, a discordant sonant sung as the sun sets, leaving nightmares to lurk along the city streets.

“Has anyone ever died from an akuma?” she asks from her vantage point, hands crossed over her knees with her chin resting on her elbows.

Her father twists around in his seat, expression unreadable. There’s a short moment of silence between them before he shakes his head. “No,” he says, but there’s a history behind those words that she’s not privy too. There’s something he’s not telling her, and from the look on her mother’s face, she can guess what it is.

No one ever died because Ladybug always brings them back.

(….But now that there’s no Ladybug…?)

The thought makes a lump swell in her throat, and she struggles to speak around it. “I guess I got lucky then—just forgetting everything. I could have died, couldn’t I?”

Her mother pushes herself to her feet, movement quick and quiet, as she strides over to the staircase, skips up the steps until she’s sitting right next to Marinette. She pulls her daughter into a tight embrace, tucking her head under her chin, and runs a hand through her hair in reassurance. Marinette isn’t sure if the gesture is for her or her mother, but she greedily accepts it nonetheless.

The steps creak as her father sits down next to them, resting a heavy hand on her bent knee. “It’s going to be okay, Marinette,” he whispers, voice thick with unshed tears.

Under the dim light of the landing, Marinette manages a thin smile and grasps onto her father’s wrist, wraps an arm around her mother, and lets her family pull her close.

There’s no words needed between them. Amidst the chaos of Paris, the wrath of Hawkmoth, and the fear without a Ladybug, Marinette takes comfort in the fact that her family is alive, they are together, and she is so _very_ loved.

(It’s a nice feeling.)

*

When she gets home from the hospital that first day, Marinette sits down at her vanity in the dark.

Staring into the mirror, seeing a stranger’s blue eyes and dark hair and pale skin in the soft silver light of the mid-morning sun, she doesn’t know what to do. Her entire world is struggling to find its axis, just spinning waywardly in the middle of nothing—no orbit to claim it, no star to call home. The face in the mirror is not her own, but she doesn’t even know what she’s supposed to look like.

Here are the facts: her name is Marinette, she is seventeen, and she wants to be a fashion designer.

Here are the facts: she is scared, this is not home, and she can’t remember anything.

Memories or not, she doesn’t want to look at this anymore. On shaky legs, she stands and strips down to nothing, throwing her torn and bloody clothing into the garbage. With frantic fingers, she puts the red and black earrings into their box and shoves it into the back of her dresser where she will no longer have to look at them. With trembling hands, she pulls her pigtails out, letting the messy hair fall into a curtain around her bruised and blistered face, shoving the black bands underneath the cushion of her chaise.

The face staring back at her is still a stranger, but at least it’s a new one.

A blank slate. A chance to start over.

In the dark bedroom, Marinette huddles over her vanity and begins to cry.

There’s nothing else to say.

*

The next akuma attack is at the Louvre nearly a week later.

Like the last time, the heroes manage to contain the damage to a single place, largely due to the chaotic nature of the akuma. It can’t even focus on the mission that Hawkmoth set them for, too busy having a tantrum that levels the entire west wing of the art museum. Ambulance and police flood the scene after the battle finishes, dragging four people from the rubble, all in critical care. Paris waits with baited breath for the heroes to emerge until the lone figure of Chat Noir cradling a young child against his chest pops up on the front page of every news site, Rena Rouge and Carapace supporting his sides as he delivers the cured akuma to frantic parents.

“Chat Noir, Chat Noir!” a reporter calls out from behind the barriers the police erected, waving a microphone out towards the hero. Carapace shoots her a fierce glare, twisting his body to hide the Black Cat hero from view. “What happened? Can you tell us what happened?”

The heroes pay the media no attention, too busy speaking with emergency medical and officers, but the microphone is able to pick up one voice amidst the commotion. It’s the words of a sobbing mother, clutching her crying daughter close.

“This is the second time that monster touched her! Why can’t he just _leave her alone_?!” Her husband rests a heavy hand on her shoulder, speaking quiet words of reassurance in her ear, but the woman just shakes her head furiously. “She doesn’t even remember who we are! She can’t help him! She can’t even help herself!”

The screams hit Marinette to her core, and she’s suddenly too overwhelmed to think straight. That akuma—that young girl—was a victim from the same attack that took Ladybug from Paris, that stole Marinette’s memories, that turned the entire city upside down.

When she reaches for the remote to turn the volume up, it’s immediately snatched from her hand. Her mother stands at the other end of the sofa, switching the television off without a word. Her face is gaunt and pale, shadows that speak of sleepless nights; she simply stares at Marinette for a short moment before nodding her head towards the kitchen.

“Dinner time,” is all she says before turning on her heel and leaving.

In the quiet that settles around her, Marinette suddenly feels more alone than ever.

 _The akuma was like me_ , she thinks.

 _Will the akuma ever be me?_ is what she really means.

*

She’s dreaming of flying again.

There’s a strange lull that settles over her as she feels herself move, placing a foot on the lip of a rooftop and jumping off the edge. Her body knows how to twist, when to throw a line and when to swing, when to arc and when to fall—it’s all muscle memory, ingrained deep in her bones. She was born on the wind currents of Paris, learned to walk along brick-lay pathways, taught herself to speak above the bustle of the streets. In the air, she feels peace in a way home has never brought.

In the dream, a boy flies beside her, the wind ruffling his messy mane of hair. He stands atop a chimney high above, and when she comes to a stumbling stop on the shingled panes below, she can’t help but look at him. Like a Da Vinci, he draws people’s eyes, and Marinette thinks she could get lost in his. It’s in the moonlit curve of his cheek, the glint of green like Northern Lights in the sky, the glow from a wide-toothed grin. The shades of happiness marbleized onto his features like something permanent.

“Admiring the view, m’lady?” He’s not talking about the city lights or starry skies.

She smiles at him, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Chat—”

The wail of akuma sirens wakes her up.

Outside, a storm brews in the distance, and Marinette sits in her bed, entire body trembling, and waits for the world to slow down.

*

The third akuma is also a memory victim.

Later, it’s revealed so was the first.

Marinette wonders what makes a pattern but tells herself it doesn’t matter. How important could she be to Hawkmoth anyway?

*

The next morning, the world feels hot and stuffy, so Marinette opens the skylight just a crack when something else catches her eye. She pauses as she pushes open the door, propping it up so she could hang on the edge and look at the hero who slumbers on her balcony. In front of her, sprawled over the green-striped porch chair, lies Chat Noir. His legs are stretched out and hooked over the edge of the railing, hair tousled from the wind, face soft in a way it never is when he’s awake. 

It’s funny because, on the list of things that Marinette knows about him, this is the most important: Chat Noir, one-half of the famed superhero duo who protects Paris, has _horrible_ bedhead. The thought makes her laugh, shoulders shaking as she muffles it behind clasped hands.

He’s not horrible to look at though. On the contrary, Marinette loses her breath the moment she sees him. Even through the black material of his suit, she can see that he’s all toned muscle and long limbs, can see the smooth dips of his spine and chiseled shoulder blades. He’s gorgeous, something surely beautiful, a perfect picture to wake up to first thing in the morning. 

A smile stretches across her face, warm and blinding like a sunrise, as she stares at him, absolutely transfixed. But she desperately wants to see life blossom in him, to see those piercing green eyes sparkle with his laughter, and so she pushes herself onto the balcony and makes her way over to the sleeping hero. 

Poking his shoulder with her index finger, Marinette leans down and whispers right in his ear, “Hey, you. I can snag you some breakfast, but you might want to wake up before it goes cold.”

“Do you have any cheese?” Chat Noir murmurs softly, face mushed against the fabric of the chair.

“I can find some,” she answers. “Got any preference?”

“Camembert?”

Her nose wrinkles a bit. “Why is that suddenly everyone’s favorite?”

He furrows his brow in confusion, and it’s strangely endearing. “What d’you mean?” His words slur together, which is also strangely endearing.

“Apparently a friend of mine loves it. We have heaps of it in our fridge, and he’s the only one who eats it.” Something flickers across Chat Noir’s face at her confession, but she pays it no heed. She has no basis or method of understanding it. “He must come around often enough—just like you—that my parents decided to stockpile it.”

“The Camembert industry is booming,” is the hero’s only response. “You should buy stocks in it while you can.”

“Duly noted,” she says over her shoulder and tugs him towards the entrance to her bedroom.

Without paying him a second glance, she bolts to the kitchen and gathers a hodge-podge of breakfast foods, complete with the requested Camembert cheese and a tall glass of orange juice. She figures that her parents won’t care much for missing food if it’s going to a good place (and a hero of Paris totally counts, right?) By the time she gets back to her bedroom, Chat Noir is camped out in front of her chaise, cross-legged on the floor with his head leaning back on the cushion. His eyes are closed, face all scrunched together like the weight of the world has returned and he isn’t ready to deal with it.

The sight makes her heart hurt something fierce.

“Delivery,” Marinette announces with a gesture of grandeur, portraying her finding like it’s the greatest thing in the world. From the look on Chat Noir’s face, you’d think it was. “If you’re still hungry, I can probably find something else. I’m not sure what the policy on stealing baked goods is, but I’m sure my dad wouldn’t mind. Surprisingly, he loves you.”

That makes Chat Noir quirk a brow high. “You find it surprising that your parents might like me? I’ve met them plenty of times.”

“Well I didn’t know that.” She pouts, and silence settles before another thought hits. “Do you come here often?”

Chat Noir flashes her a smile. “Do you use that line on all the strays?”

It takes her a moment to understand what he’s implying, and then her cheeks are burning a bright, furious red while he starts to laugh. “That’s not what I meant,” she tells him in a rush, wanting to bury her face in her hands just so she can hide from this stupid hero.

“Don’t worry. I get what you mean,” he says, saving her from more embarrassment. He munches on a banana muffin, shrugging half-heartedly as she waits in silence. “Like I said, we’re friends. I’ve met your parents and everything, even been over for dinner a few times.”

“Were we ever together?”

He chokes. “Excuse me?”

Marinette clenches her hands into tight fists at her side, unwilling to ask the question again. He heard her, and there’s no reason to repeat it because she already feels stupid enough as is. There’s just still _so much_ she doesn’t understand, and even though she pushes to try, more questions remain unanswered at the end of the day, slowly adding to the ever growing pile she’s compiled after a month.

Being with Chat Noir—in a relationship, or dating, or whatever they define this as—it wouldn’t be so bad. There’s a Chat Noir plush sitting on her windowsill, worn and well-loved; the clothing designs she’s discovered with a little Black Cat inspiration, the color palettes tacked to her pinboard that track the colors of his eyes. She thinks of the way he lounges in her bedroom in a way that speaks of comfort and familiarity, the way his gaze follows her every move when he thinks she’s not looking, the soft smile that never fades no matter how many questions she asks or jibes she throws. It reminds her of the bits and pieces she’s sewn together from watching her parents, the way they linger in each other’s orbit even when they’re a universe apart.

Dating Chat Noir? It makes sense in a way other things don’t.

“We aren’t together,” he finally tells her, voice low enough to be a whisper, but the fervor behind it speaks volumes. “There was once… an _almost_ , I guess, but that was a long time ago.”

“Gotcha,” she sums up, leaving no room for the conversation to continue. The creeping humiliation is back, sinking heavy into her veins. “Thanks for clarifying.”

Chat Noir sets his plate down on her chaise and cocks his head, looking her up from head to toe, before sliding a leg forward and hooking his ankle around her hip. “Come here,” he says, nudging her closer. There’s a hesitation, a bit of awkward fumbling as Marinette shuffles closer until she’s sitting next to him, resting her head against the cushion of the chaise. “You are one amazing person, Marinette Dupain-Cheng, and you don’t need memories to tell you that.”

“I don’t know who I am,” she tells him brokenly. “And no matter how much I figure out or learn… nothing seems make sense in the way it should.” She shakes her head because she doesn’t know how else to explain it. “You’re probably the only one I can talk to about this.”

He furrows his brow in confusion. “Aren’t your parents around?”

There’s something cynical to her smile. “They’re too busy trying to protect me from things that it’s worthless to even try. And my friends don’t know any more than I do, which is really saying a lot. So I’m basically by myself in this.”

“You’re not alone, no matter how it feels.” He nudges her side with his elbow. “You’ve got me.”

“So this is all there is between us?” she asks, looking genuinely pained. There _has_ to be something else between them, right? Alya doesn’t make her feel this way. “Me feeding you, and you being my shoulder to cry on?”

“What more do you need?” And she can’t tell if he expects an honest answer.

She can’t think of anything else to say, too overcome with emotions to properly portray her feelings. So she sighs and pushes herself to her feet and jabs her thumb over her shoulder. “Feel like playing some video games?”

Chat Noir’s smile is blinding. “I thought you’d never ask.”

*

The fourth akuma comes the next day, and she doesn’t see Chat Noir for the rest of the week.

Hero work is risky business, and Marinette wonders if friendship is even more so for him.

*

In the space beside her windows, three sketchbooks sit in a haphazard pile, thrown there in frustration or tossed on the tail end of tears.

The first half of each is full of beautiful designs, from floral dresses to feathered hats, logo options and hero-inspired athletic gear. There’s no rhyme or reason to what is found, just measurements and inspiration jotted in the margins around these finished products. Marinette wonders if the her from Before ever brought them to life.

In the latter half of the books, sketches of people doing mundane things like her father sitting on the couch reading a book or Alya icing a cupcake fill the pages. There’s one she drew the day she first met Chat Noir in the After or her mother kneading dough in the bakery kitchen. The last few weeks have trickled by with no sign of her memories, and the only thing that Marinette is certain of is that she can’t afford to lose them again. So she draws ghosts she barely knows on the pages meant for designs, a stark contrast to the clear-cut person she’d been before.

There’s a life to whatever she draws—people or designs—but it doesn’t seem to matter.

She wonders if the Marinette from Before would mind.

*

When she wakes in the middle of the night, heart pounding in her chest from a dream she can’t remember, Marinette relocates to her chaise, sketching to try to put her mind at ease. The last akuma attack struck too close to home in a way that miles can’t measure. The thought that someone might be hunting akuma victims leaves her shaken in a way she can’t describe. Four people have fallen prey, and she can’t help but wonder, _Will I be next?_

As eleven o’clock ticks by, a knock above her startles her from her silent reverie. When she glances up, the green eyes of Chat Noir meet hers, hopeful in the moonlight. Somehow, she thinks she understands _exactly_ what he wants, so she nods in his direction. The skylight opens with a soft _creak,_ and a gloved hand curls over the bend of her ceiling as the Black Cat hero slowly lowers himself into her bedroom.

A sense of nostalgia burns low in the pit of her stomach because seeing Chat Noir slip through her skylight makes her think of coming home. He’s quiet as he moves, dropping down from her bed without using the ladder, and lands on his haunches with his head hanging low. Bits of sleet dust his tousled hair, dripping onto her floor in wet plops, but it’s not enough to cause concern.

The November storm had come in like a soft sigh, a hazy wintery mix hanging like a ghost over Paris. Nothing was sticking to the ground quite yet, the weather still dancing the line of crisp autumn, a moment of transition before the world settles into the cold stillness of December. Marinette hopes that she’ll remember what Paris winters feel like by then.

“There’s a towel near the dresser if you want it,” Marinette calls over her shoulder, turning back to her sketching without greeting. Since the first time she met the hero, there’s been little need for small talk, almost like the things unsaid are more than enough. She’s not sure what the innate understanding between them says, but it surely speaks volumes as she tries to learn a language she’s forgotten.

“Might need a little bit more than that,” comes the ragged voice of a hurting hero. It makes Marinette twist in her seat, her blank stare turning into something urgent, eyes widening as she catches sight of the blood streaked across his face.

“Oh my god,” she says, pushing herself out of her chair and crossing the room in a blink. Her mouth hangs open in shock, hands hovering over Chat Noir like they’re waiting on the precipice of a cliff, unsure whether to reach forward and fall or pull back with caution. “What the hell happened to you?”

Chat Noir waves a hand in front of him, trying to brush off her panic. “It’s really nothing. The akuma was just a little rough around the edges, and I got thrown into a building. No one else got hurt though, so little victories, I suppose.”

“You’re bleeding,” is the only thing Marinette can choke out. News of another akuma isn’t the first thing on her mind. Instead, her fingers dance around the wound along his hairline, voice catching at his sharp gasp. “You’re hurt.”

“It’s not the first time,” he says, and it’s supposed to reassure her, but it only hits wrong. Seeing him in pain? This isn’t something Marinette will _ever_ be comfortable with. “But can I use your bathroom? I want to clean up before I go home. Don’t want anyone to see.”

“Heaven forbid people worry about you.”

Chat Noir winces at the harshness of her tone. “There’s a fine line between worry and panic, and a lot of people I know tend to lean pretty far to one side.” When he shifts his weight, a grunt falls involuntarily from his lips, and a hand comes up to cradle the side of his torso.

 _Ribs_ , Marinette’s mind supplies. _He’s hurt his ribs_.

“Sit down before you hurt yourself anymore.” He doesn’t resist as she tugs him across the room, having him sit down on her chaise. Any blood stains she figures she can look up how to remove later, but all that matters right now is the boy in front of her who is risking life and limb to keep Paris safe and uphold a promise he made towards her.

“First aid kit,” she mumbles under her breath, glancing around the room. She had absolutely _no idea_ where something like that would be kept but figures her bathroom is the best choice.

It’s not long before she has the hero resting and comfortable, unzipping the top of his faux-leather and Kevlar suit, and getting to work to clean up the scrapes and cuts he gathered from a fucking _building_.

“I thought your suit was supposed to protect you,” she says, trying to fill the gaps of silence between them. “Does this usually happen with Ladybug?”

Chat Noir shakes his head, hissing when she presses on his wounds a bit too hard. “No, never. But my way of cleansing akumas leaves me… a bit weaker. My magic is a little unstable for a while after I do it, and with the increase in akuma attacks, I haven’t exactly had the proper time to recover.”

She takes an antibiotic wipe and begins to tend to the cut along his hairline, dabbing the edges of the wound to clean away the blood and bits of debris. Chat Noir sits in silence, exhaustion hanging heavy from his frame, and the sudden urge to embrace him comes in like a tidal wave, nearly pulling her out to sea before she can stop herself. Ignoring her screaming instincts is the only way she’s going to get through this.

“I’m surprised I have this,” she says, poking the box with her toe. “Do I do this a lot for you?”

“No, you’re just naturally clumsy.” Chat Noir flashes her a faint smile. “Part of the Marinette charm. If you don’t have a bruise or a twisted ankle, it’s a miracle.”

Finding out this new tidbit about herself makes her chest warm.

“Tell me more about your magic,” she tells him as she works.

“Want to know all my secrets?” He raises his brow in jest.

The burn of alcohol makes him wince. “Or I’m just trying to distract you,” she responds with a wry smile.

Marinette tries to be as gentle as possible, wiping away the dust and dirt from ruin and rubble. On the bright side, the hero doesn’t seem to be in much pain aside from the little tells, soft gasps that fall from trembling lips and white-knuckled fists pressing into his thighs, that she takes a moment to be overwhelmed by everything about him. This boy who risks everything just keep this city safe.

It’s the stuff of miracles—that’s for sure.

“There’s not much to say about this magic,” he tells her softly, the words like a caress of feather against her cheeks. “I use it to become Chat Noir, and it gives me abilities like enhanced strength and senses or destruction to help defeat the akumas.”

“Is it all the same magic?” she asks. “With Rena Rouge, Carapace, and Ladybug? And Hawkmoth?”

He presses his lips into a thin line. “You’re a quick study.”

She shrugs. “I’ve got the time.”

“They’re called the Miraculous, which you already know. Just jewels that give us powers to transform.”

The thought springs into her mind before she can stop it. “And I had one at one point.”

“Once—a long time ago.”

Chat Noir is quiet again. Marinette wishes that he’d talk more, make a pun or laugh. The day she’d spent with him, playing video games and sharing snacks for hours, was one of the best days she’d had in a long while, and she’s desperate for that same closeness. Digging into the first-aid kit, she takes a tube and swabs some antibiotic cream onto his wounds and covers them with bandages.

“Any luck with Ladybug?” she asks, pressing a butterfly bandage over his collar bone.

“No,” he says, gaze fixed on his clasped hands. “We haven’t found anything yet.”

Marinette frowns. “It’s been a month.”

Chat Noir is a silent for a long while, simply letting Marinette finish cleaning him up. It’s clear there are topics he doesn’t want to touch, and she doesn’t know if it’s because he’s ignoring them or too afraid to try. His partner seems to be one of them, and she can’t exactly blame him. Ladybug means the world to Chat Noir, and without her in his, he’s lost.

“You’re all finished,” she tells him once the first-aid kit is shoved back underneath her bathroom sink. She sinks down beside him on the chaise, helping the hero shrug back into his uniform.

He only flashes her another faint smile, but there’s something aching in her chest she needs to smother. “Pound it?” she asks softly, raising her hand into the space between them. It’s like muscle memory, but she’s not sure where it’s from.

There’s something unspeakable that crosses Chat Noir’s face, and his eyes widen ever so slightly. Flickering between her lips and eyes, skittering across her face and lingering on her messy bun, his gaze rests solely on her fist for a short time. There’s a hesitation to his actions as he knocks their knuckles together with the ghost of a smile.

“Good teamwork,” he whispers lowly, and it’s almost too soft to hear, like the whisper amidst a raging storm. You have to truly try to listen if you want to be privy to it.

There’s that quiet again that settles around them, but it doesn’t seem out of place. Something tells her that the two of them have sat in stillness before to a point that it’s instinct—a part of who they are. She can’t imagine what they’d be doing in that time but takes comfort in the small moments it offers.

Eventually, Chat Noir pulls himself to his feet, trying to smother a wince as he gently cradles an arm against his chest to brace his injured ribs. “Take care of yourself,” she warns him, poking his upper arm with his index finger.

A laugh slips from his cracked, chapped lips. “I always do.”

He climbs up to her skylight and salutes, reaching for the window to leave when she reaches forward, grabbing onto his wrist with a sudden fervor. “I know I’ve said it before,” Marinette says suddenly, the words springing from her mouth before she can stop them. “But if you need any help—anything at all, really—I’m here for you. My window’s always open to you, Chat Noir.”

The bruising ache from remembering that thrums through her head soothes when Chat Noir smiles at her, cocking his head to the side and she can see his brilliant, white teeth. It’s so familiar that it takes her breath away. “You have no idea how much that means to me, Marinette.”

And then he’s gone, as quick and quiet as he came, and instead of heavy loneliness, Marinette is left with the breathless awe of _something right_.

*

The fifth akuma comes three days later as dawn breaks over the November morning. Silver sunlight pours through her skylight as Marinette reclines against her pillows, a head buried in a book she’d been in the middle of before the accident. Reading it is taking some time, but it’s a wonderful story, and a part of her is so glad she can enjoy it. The Marinette from Before obviously has good taste.

There’s a knock on her door, and Marinette hums to let them know to come inside, thinking it’s one of her parents. When Alya’s tear-stained face peers over the rim of the door, Marinette drops her book on her bed and bolts down the ladder.

“What happened?” she demands, eyes skittering over the brunette for any sign of injury. There’s a fading bruise along her cheekbone, but otherwise her friend would look right as rain if it wasn’t for the monsoon brewing on her face. “Is everything okay?”

“Akuma,” Alya mumbles, voice cracking in a hoarse way that speaks of sleepless night full of tears. Marinette should know considering it’s how she spent the first few weeks after the accident. “There was an akuma.”

Alya collapses into Marinette’s outstretched arms in a mess of tears, and all she can do is hold on tight and vow never to let go. Right now, Alya needs comfort, and even though Marinette’s forgotten many things, one thing she hasn’t is how to be there for her best friend.

When news of the akuma hits social media and cable, Marinette won’t stop glancing at her hands, wondering why they aren’t covered in blood when they should be soaked as she dissects that morning with Alya, every moment with Chat Noir, and the resolute expressions on her parents’ faces. She’s hunched over an operating table searching under skin for answers to the tragedy that she’s too afraid to think about.

Alya may have been caught in an akuma attack, but at least she got out.

Marcy Bisset, a twenty-year-old university student, didn’t have that sort of luck.

*

She’s on her balcony wrapped in a knit blanket, face glowing orange in the lantern light. Chat Noir is pressed into the far corner of her house where the shadows are the heaviest. Still, he reaches out a hand towards her, and she can see every minute tremble of his fingers.

“I need you,” he whispers, but it’s as loud as a siren between them.

Without another word, Marinette lets the blanket drop behind her and grasps his hand.

*

“Because she died, and maybe Ladybug did too!” Rena Rouge is saying as Chat Noir pulls Marinette up over the side of the roof, hands clasped over her hips, grip tight but gentle. “Or maybe she did lose her memories, but I don’t know what _to do_ —”

“And we have a visitor,” Carapace interjects before the Fox heroine can continue her rant, which Marinette has no basis for nor any hope of understanding. She figures that the Turtle hero is playing it safe though, keeping potentially classified information from curious civilians who have no reason to be lurking about.

She still doesn’t know why Chat Noir brought her here.

Two wide pairs of eyes study her from across the rooftop, quiet and resolute, trying to uncover any secrets she’s desperate to keep hidden away. Marinette knows it’s useless though. She doesn’t even understand her own secrets, so what hope is there for the heroes to do so?

“Brought a friend tonight,” Chat Noir says to the other heroes as he walks towards them, tugging Marinette along to follow. She falls in line willingly, curiosity peaking with each step. “Figured she might be able to help us.”

“You want to bring a _civilian_ into this mess?” Rena Rouge asks, and Marinette is struck by the sharpness to her tone. “Didn’t you see what happened to the last one?”

“I’ve been told I’m very lucky when it comes to akuma attacks,” Marinette grumbles, crossing her arms against her chest. Dubious hesitation squirms beneath her skin; whether it’s the hero sets her off or if it’s just the enigmatic situation she’s been thrown into remains to be seen. However, she does know, in the cobwebbed corners of her mind, that Rena Rouge’s fury is nothing to make light of.

“You guys remember Marinette, right?” Chat Noir says wearily, gesturing to her.

“Yeah, we know _her_ ,” Rena Rouge barks. “You know we do.” There’s something else in her voice, something buried beneath that biting tone, that makes Marinette perk with interest. She doesn’t sound surly—she just sounds _scared_.

“You know me?” The question slips out before Marinette can stop it. From the flash of panic that crosses Rena Rouge and Carapace’s faces, though, she’s suddenly glad it did.

It throws Chat Noir off kilter. “I already told you: you used to be a hero,” he says in a rush, running a hand through his hair, a habit that speaks of nervous energy rather than discomfort. “You’ve worked with them too.”

Marinette quirks a brow high. “Really?”

“And we’ve seen you sometimes during the akuma battles,” Carapace tries to interject before Marinette can grow more skeptical, but she’s spent most of her short-lived second chance at life reading between the lines of questions and answers. She may not be able to find her own truth yet, but she certainly knows how to spot a lie.

“Yeah.” Rena Rouge rubs her arm anxiously, refusing to look at her. “You’re a big help.”

“That’s… actually why I wanted her to meet you guys,” Chat Noir says, launching into the very reason he’d accosted Marinette on her balcony and pulled her into this whirlwind adventure. “I think Marinette might be just the person we need right now.”

This was news to her. “In what way? I’m no help to anyone right now—not in this condition. I can’t even help myself.” She’s bitter, broken, and _pissed off_. What the fuck could she possibly do right now to help _anyone_?

“You don’t need your memories right now. We need Multi-Mouse.” Chat Noir steps towards her, placing a reassuring hand on her elbow. His grip is firm, imploring her to listen, but Marinette is almost afraid to because she doesn’t know what’s going to come from this. “Multi-Mouse has the power to duplicate herself, which could give us more bodies in the field.”

“The Mouse hero?” Marinette stares at him in bewilderment. “I thought you said it was too dangerous for me because my identity got revealed.”

Rena Rouge puts her hands on her hips, turning around to face Chat Noir with fire glinting in her brown eyes. “You can’t honestly be serious right now! You _know_ how much of a risk it is just letting us help, and now you want to throw Marinette in the line of fire? After what just happened to _Marcy_?”

“It’s different!” Chat Noir protests. “It’s different with her!”

“No, it’s not! She could still get hurt, _especially_ if her identity was revealed.” Rena Rouge pushes against his chest, not enough strength behind it to even move him, but just enough to get her frustration across. “You can be really stupid sometimes, Chat Noir, but with Ladybug around it’s usually tolerable. But you’re reaching a whole new kind of stupid right now! I’m not going to let you stand around her and just use her like that. She could get _hurt_!”

Rena Rouge is yelling, voice growing louder and higher, and if Marinette were to close her eyes, dust off those cob-webbed corners, she thinks she can place it. It’s familiar—like she’s heard it before—on the tail end of a laugh, in a whisper under bed sheets, as an excited thrum huddled over photographs of heroes. It’s clear Rena Rouge cares for Marinette, even though she’s not sure in what exact capacity, but it’s enough to make her take the hero’s concerns to heart.

“Rena Rouge’s right,” comes Marinette’s soft interruption. “If Hawkmoth knows my secret identity, it puts my family and friends at risk, and I don’t want to do that. I won’t let Hawkmoth hurt them. My parents already worry. When I offered to help, I didn’t mean—"

“But that’s the thing,” Chat Noir tells her before the other heroes can respond. “Hawkmoth doesn’t know your identity. Only me and Ladybug do.”

 _Oh_ , Marinette thinks, _that changes things_.

“And now us,” Carapace adds with a sharp smirk. It makes Marinette want to laugh at Chat Noir’s short sight.

But the Black Cat hero isn’t hearing any excuses. “Well, your identities aren’t exactly a secret anymore either, even to Hawkmoth.”

“Yeah, but that’s our choice,” Rena Rouge argues. “Marinette doesn’t understand anything—”

“Hey!” Marinette snaps. Something new brews in her chest, a dancing heat like a wildfire, and almost boils over. It’s that famous temper her mother was talking about. “I can handle myself, thanks. I’ve been doing just fine on my own so far, and I can make my own fucking choices, memories or not.”

“I’m not saying you’re helpless, Marinette.” It’s Rena Rouge’s turn to direct that burning fury towards her. “I’m saying that there’s things you don’t understand, and it’s not possible to make a split second decision about all of this right now—no matter what Chat Noir has told you.”

But the thing is, Marinette realizes, is that Chat Noir hasn’t told her _anything_. The decision to follow, to accept his hand and go flying over Paris, was made entirely of her own accord. All her friend had done was ask, and something deep inside Marinette pushed her to say _yes_. Buried in her bones is a part of her that knows the risk that comes with the mask, whose muscles have adapted to shoulder the weight of its responsibility, whose scars speak volumes of the sacrifices needed to keep this city safe.

Marinette _understands_ in a way that she doesn’t think she should—in a way that a hero of one day three years ago shouldn’t be able too.

(It’s just another secret she isn’t privy too quite yet.)

“But I can learn,” Marinette tells the heroes. “All I’ve done the last month is learn: about my past, my family and friends, who I am, who I’m _supposed_ to be. Something tells me that Marinette Dupain-Cheng isn’t the kind of person who’d turn away if someone needs her help.”

 _Regardless of her own personal safety_ is what she doesn’t add, in fear of Rena Rouge’s wrath.

There’s a chuckle from behind them. “God, I missed that martyr complex,” Carapace says.

He’s leaning against a cement intersection of the building, arms crossed against his chest, ever the image of content and relaxed. Marinette can’t even remember a time she dared look that comfortable since she lost her memories, but something about his ease makes her want to. Carapace nods in her direction like he understands exactly where she’s going with this, like he already knows her decision before she’s even made it.

“So what’re you saying?” Chat Noir asks wearily.

“Tell me everything,” she says with a fervor, ignoring the way Rena Rouge regards her with a look of bone-deep exhaustion and how Carapace resigns himself to begrudging acceptance. “What you need me to do, all the risks, explain _everything_.”

“Marinette—”

She faces Chat Noir, eyes imploring. “I’m not going to end up like Marcy Bisset.”

“We’re going to get her back,” he says. “Once we find Ladybug, everything will be fine.”

“I can’t put my parents through that,” she presses.

Chat Noir is already nodding, having made his decision before she pushes, sliding down to sit against the sloped tile of the roof. “We can do that.”

“I’m not okay with this,” Rena Rouge says. “The more she knows, the more of a target is on her head. This isn’t how we keep her safe.”

“If I’m in danger, I’m entitled to know,” Marinette spits out. “I am tired of people keeping secrets from me. This is my life!”

“She’s got a point, babe.”

But Rena Rouge isn’t listening. “You can’t honestly say you’re okay with this?”

Carapace thinks about it for a moment before shrugging. “She at least deserves to know what’s going on. That doesn’t mean she’s going to pick up a Miraculous.”

That familiarity—the same one that comes with Rena Rouge—sparks with Carapace. The more she stares at the Turtle hero, the more she thinks about lunch four days ago when she first met Nino Lahiffe. It’d been a quiet affair between him and Alya at the café down the street from bakery, where Marinette nibbled on a sandwich as Nino and Alya took turns pelting each other with grapes from their fruit salad. They’d spent an hour discussing school work and other classmates, telling stories of their adventures together and any inside jokes that might spur the return of memories for her.

There was no progress on the memory-front at the end of the day, but it did go a long way in assuring Marinette that she had a wonderful group of friends. Alya, Nino, and the mysterious Adrien seemed like amazing people, and it also hurt her heart that she couldn’t remember anything about them. Before leaving, Nino had whisked her into a tight embrace, murmured a few words of encouragement in her ears, and only sniffled twice when she wished his younger brother the same luck. It was the first time she felt _normal_ and understood.

Carapace makes her feel the exact same way. It’s nice.

She glances around the rooftop: at the easy way Carapace stands, at the way Chat Noir lounges like he belongs, at the way Rena Rouge refuses to concede. No one dares to talk first, so Marinette guesses that she’ll have to start with questions—just like with everything else in her life.

“If Hawkmoth knows your secret identities, then how are you still heroes?” is the first thing that comes to mind.

When Chat Noir had first explained to her of her past as the Mouse hero, she figured that identities were a one and done deal. _It’s dangerous_ , he’d told her. _Hawkmoth isn’t above using the people you love to get what he wants_.

“Three years ago, an akuma managed to reveal everyone’s identity except for Ladybug and Chat Noir’s and… well, yours, I guess.” Carapace stares down the shield in his hands, knocking on its hard shell with his knuckles. “There weren’t any other heroes for over a year, but then there was this awful akuma—”

“—Nearly destroyed the city,” Rena Rouge adds.

“—And Ladybug and I needed help.” Chat Noir frowns at the memory, like he still isn’t sure whether he made the right choice. “We asked some of the heroes whether they’d help because we needed people who knew what they were doing.”

“Rena and I were the only ones who said yes,” Carapace says. “We knew that Hawkmoth knew who we were, and if he thought we still had a Miraculous with us, then nothing would stop him from coming after us and our families.”

“But it got to a point where it was dangerous whether we were fighting or not.” Rena Rouge shifts her weight and comes closer, rubbing her elbows anxiously. “And I couldn’t let Paris fall just because I was scared, so I became Rena Rouge again. We defeated the akuma and saved the day.”

“And that was it?” Marinette asks.

Carapace laughs again, but this time it’s something dark and twisted. “Until Hawkmoth came for my mom.”

Terror fills Marinette’s heart, so much that she nearly chokes on it. “Was she okay?”

“Of course,” Chat Noir interjects. “We had Ladybug.”

“Hawkmoth thought we had the Miraculous with us,” Carapace explains. “But Ladybug never lets us keep them. She’s the Guardian, which Hawkmoth knows, and she keeps them hidden when they’re not in use, so he only sent a few akumas for us before realizing that we didn’t have anything or know anything that could help him get to Ladybug and Chat Noir.”

“The one time he’s smart,” Rena Rouge grumbles. It makes Marinette smile because she was right. For a super villain, he really is pretty stupid.

Carapace brightens as he tells the rest of his story. “So eventually the evil butterfly backed off and left us alone, and we’re okay. We’re only called out when needed, which isn’t too often. This last month has been… an oddity.”

“Because Ladybug decided to go MIA?”

“It wasn’t her choice,” Chat Noir says heatedly, but the expression on his face… He just looks _sad_. There’s no anger to it, no temper about to boil over—just the look of someone who’s lost the person they love. It makes Marinette’s chest hurt something strong, but she doesn’t know why. “I may not know where she is, but at least I know that much.”

Marinette isn’t sure if his conclusion is one borne of logic or love. Logic speaks in facts while love cradles tender truths too easily bruised to withstand harsh reality. Chat Noir, from the fervent way he speaks of his partner, stems from the latter, but she has hope that there’s some basis for it all. Rena Rouge and Carapace nod in agreement with his assessment, and it’s clear that there’s more to the story than Marinette knows.

(What else is new?)

“We just told the Mayor that Ladybug was missing,” Carapace tells her. “That she was kidnapped or something, or maybe Hawkmoth captured her. That maybe she even ran away.”

“You don’t know?”

“No, we do,” Rena Rouge cuts in. “But we’re trying to throw off Hawkmoth and make him think that we don’t.” Shrugging to herself, the hero starts to amble around the group in a slow circle, too lost in thought to sit still. “It’s a mental game with Hawkmoth, like an endurance race. If he thinks Ladybug is missing, it might shift his focus elsewhere, and then he won’t go after the akuma victims.”

Marinette’s face is blank. “Akuma victims? Why would he go after akuma victims?”

Chat Noir’s voice is soft when he speaks. “Not just… _any_ akuma victims.”

There’s a few seconds of silence as Marinette’s mind thrums away, trying to connect dots with shaky hands, faint lines on a page that are barely discernible. She thinks of all the things that she’s learned of the heroes of Paris and Hawkmoth, of the trauma that comes with being an akuma victim, the terror that sparks without Ladybug’s magic. The realization is a tidal wave crashing against the shore and nearly washing her away.

“People like me,” she says numbly. “Everyone who lost their memories.”

“Yeah,” comes out as a sigh.

“Because you think that’s what happened to Ladybug,” Marinette continues, and questions begin to spin in her head. “Because you think she lost her memories.”

“We _know_ she did.” The clarification from Chat Noir is quick and sharp like instinct. His belief in his partner is overwhelming, and she wonders what kind of person Ladybug would have to be to garner that kind of loyalty from another person. “She wouldn’t leave Paris, no matter what some tabloids are saying, and she wouldn’t abandon _me_. The only other option is that she got hit by that akuma and doesn’t remember being Ladybug.”

She chews over her bottom lip in thought. “So what’ve you been doing about that? Can’t you just go up to her and _tell_ her that she’s Ladybug?”

“We would if we knew who she was.” Chat Noir shakes his head with a faint smile. “Despite the numerous times I’ve tried to get her name out of her, Ladybug’s always been a stickler for the rules. She likes her secrets. No one knows her identity—not even me.” He sounds sad when he says this, and something inside _aches_ when she thinks of the added burden he’s carried since his partner disappeared.

No one’s supposed to go at this alone—that’s why Chat Noir has his Ladybug. She can’t imagine how hard it’s been for him without her.

“We’ve been trying to track down everyone who lost their memory,” Carapace continues, tossing his shield between his hands. “There wasn’t a report or census took when the attack first happened. There’s never been a reason to keep track of everyone affected by an akuma, usually because we have Ladybug to fix everything.”

“We asked Mayor Bourgeois if he’d try to get a list of everyone who lost their memories, consult hospitals or something.” Rena Rouge’s frown deepened. “But now that people know that Hawkmoth is targeting them, they’ve started hiding, and it’s only going to get worse after what happened with Marcy. We can’t find _anybody_ now. They’re hiding or leaving Paris.”

Marinette really doesn’t know what to say to that. She thinks of her parents huddled together on the living room couch, faces illuminated by the stark white light of the television, the dried tear tracks that painted her mother’s cheeks speaking of unbridled fear. She thinks of her father kneading dough in the kitchen, the lines of his face shadowed ever since the last akuma attack. They’re both scared for her, for Paris, for Ladybug. Without the heroine and with Hawkmoth on a rampage searching for past victims, there’s little they can do.

Paris, she knows deep down in her very soul, is their livelihood. They can’t leave because there’s nowhere else for them to go.

“So what’re your options?”

Chat Noir shrugs, albeit rather helplessly, and clenches his hands into tight fists at his sides. “What we’ve been doing—trying to track down akuma victims on our own.”

“And if you find Ladybug?” Marinette presses. “If she can’t remember that she’s Ladybug, how can she fix everything?”

“She should still have her Miraculous on her,” Chat Noir says. He studies her for a moment, eyes lingering. “Once upon a time, we didn’t know what we were doing, but we still managed to save Paris. She can do it again.”

Marinette chews on her bottom lips, numerous thoughts fighting for her attention, but in the end, what it comes down to is a simple question. “What do you need from me?”

Carapace is the one who answers. “Isn’t it obvious, Mari?” he tells her. “We’re getting crushed out. We need Multi-Mouse.”

“So, Marinette Dupain-Cheng,” Chat Noir says softly. “Do you feel like being a hero?”

Rena Rogue sighs and drops her head in her hands, body shaking with either anger or terror. Carapace flashes her a wry smile, looking for all the world like he should be against the idea, but the eager look in his eyes gives it all away. Chat Noir, on the other hand, just stares at her with an expression that says he already knows what her decision will be—what it has been since she first stepped onto that rooftop.

She shrugs, knowing she’s going to regret this, but it feels like the first right choice she’s made since the accident. “What’ve I got to lose?” she asks even though the answer is _everything_. “Sign me up.”


End file.
